


Emortality

by aqhrodites



Category: Legion (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Mythology, Immortality, Immortals, Mortality, Multi, Not Canon Compliant, The Gods Are Dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-19
Updated: 2017-12-14
Packaged: 2018-11-02 02:57:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10935549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aqhrodites/pseuds/aqhrodites
Summary: The term "emortality" is intended to indicate near-immortality as opposed to absolute immortality.It is by the Gods what we do, who we are, and what we become. It is by the Gods that we die, appraise, that we crave revenge. From so, the merciless, remorseful mega-giants are aonian and eternal because, well, that's just the way of the universe.Or at least that's how it used to be.Now, no one's heard from Gods for centuries, since the Gods allowed humans to decide their short fates.Because in reality, Zeus is gone. Persephone is dead. Hera has taken control. Some have chosen to live among mortals, while a few are still confined to their immortal duties, such as workaholic Hades (David) who's placed on mandatory vacation and is to room with the Luck Deity (Lenny). But when he meets the reincarnation of his late wife (Sydney) he's torn to stay on Earth or to remain a God. But Gods are prohibited to be with mortals anymore, no matter who they are.Meanwhile a malevolent spirit is out for Hades' throne while he's away, planning to use Hades' precious metals, his high position, and his face as a path to become all-powerful.





	1. Chapter 1

 

**/**

 

_If you were a god of unlimited power, but was allowed to move about only by the strictest of boundaries, are you really all-powerful?_

 

**/ /**

 

 

"No one ever thought about the eldest brother, the one who boiled in stomach acid the longest, and no one cared when he was ostracized by his own family. When he was given a choice, become ruler of the skies, ruler of the seas, or ruler of everything under the earth, and saw how his brothers fought over the first two, he saw the last as a means of escape.  
He could get away.  
He saw the potential of the extent of what could come under his rule; all of the jewels and metal became his if he could embrace the darkness, and every human would become his eventually and he would be the strongest.  
Watching and waiting.  
His realm would be the most vast, his subjects the most numerous, his wealth beyond measure, and, when the time was right, he could easily take the other two realms for himself if he so wished."

**— Hades chose his fate with a smile: b.a.s**

 

* * *

 

It is by the Gods what we do, who we are, and what we become.

It is by the Gods that we die, appraise, that we crave revenge. From so, the merciless, remorseful mega-giants that they are are aonian and eternal because, well, that's just the way of the universe.

 

* * *

The king of the Underworld sits across from a deity of slender frame and poised figure. Long, swarthy fingers, nails clipped short. Short dark umber waves. Square-framed glasses. Cotton suit. He's known as the deity of health, healing, and medicine. He likes to be called Dr. Poole. The cushions of the pair of single sofa chairs are soft and cloud-like. Poole sits like a marble sculpture, unperturbed as every other day, and there's a small piece of paper folded in one hand. It's a yellowed piece of parchment with a single sentence scrawled by the hand belonging to the commander of them all herself—the queen of the Gods, Her Majesty.

The king to the Underworld taps the end of his armrest, impatient, restless; the knuckles of his other hand rise to press his knuckles to his lips. The two deities have been sitting here for—who knows how long. It's transformed into a staring contest, a competition of who can be the quietest, of who can hold the facade of calm the longest. And Poole is winning. He _does_ win when the other finally throws his hands up and blurts aloud, "is she coming or not? Is it—is this some kind of intervention? That what this is? Is—is this—I have nearly six hundred souls and counting that I need to tend to right now, so—"

"They will be tended to in time," Poole interrupts, a small smile showing that's supposed to be reassuring. It doesn't serve itself justice. He is then questioned about the sum of time passed. Tells that there is no time, ever, Poole answers—one waits a minute too long and there could be a tear in the Saran Wrap-thin dimension boundaries—

The other scratches his scalp, a knee bouncing impatiently. Looks to the dark mahogany door behind Poole. The knob is a peacock feather shaped into a circle, carved out of pure gold. The deity picks under his nails, adjusts his sleeves, fingers fidget the top of his head, looks to the door, scowls.

"You seem twitchy today." Poole folds his hands atop his left knee.

The other freezes. "Twitchy? No, I'm not twitchy. No—uh, I'm _fine_." There's obvious sarcasm. The pout of his bottom lip. "Just waiting for all of the Underworld to _blow up_ , you know?"

"Because of the souls?"

"Uh, _yeah_. Because of the souls..." He smiles for a second. It's as dry as dust.

His sweet, dictatorial sister-in-law doesn't favor the late and disorderly, the Underworld deity knows. Much less to be late herself, so...

"Now, where'd you say my _dear_  sister-in-law is? She's running a little late to her own meeting."

Poole can be interpreted as suspiciously calm, creepily so even. But it would be more so if he had been a _mortal_ —because aged immortals don't exempt emotion. They aren't conformed to the _normality_ as mortals and humans are. They are free range; there is no "creepy" or "normal," and only their essence and ethos exists to govern their choices, desires, and ambitions.

Well, partially so.

Gods are very influential.

"She's currently making sure that your occupation is being shown the ropes by an appropriate substitute in preparation for your anticipated absence."

"By—by _who_ , exactly?" He blinks, incredulously.

"That isn't important—"

"Not _important_ —?"

"To your current position. And yes, we're all well aware that your occupation doesn't come with an _instruction manual_ or some other," Poole answers his fellow deity's thoughts. "Which is what Her Majesty is setting up your replacement right now for as we speak."

"M-my _replacement_?"

"Temporary. I'm sure you remember that meeting with Her Majesty sometime after the bombing of Aleppo in Syria?" Poole is indicating when the queen of the Gods pulled her brother-in-law aside to tell him that he's been working hard and needs—no, _deserves_ a break. Well, it hadn't been a suggestion and more of an order. And of course, he didn't argue much. He never does. She is also fiercely headstrong.

The king of the Underworld sucks his teeth; wide, frustrated, _alert_ eyes rolling, dart to the door, to the side-table at his left. He knows, he remembers. "I never agreed to this."

"Do you really have to?" It's a rhetorical question. _Touché_. "She's the queen, after all."

The one of death rolls of his eyes again. The Underworld king sucks in a breath, mouth opening as if to object. Closes. He lets out a frustrated sigh.

He already knows what the note—the _referral_ —reads in it's slanted, old-fashioned script: mandatory, temporary release from duty, inarguably.

He thinks she should work on her grammar.

* * *

His babysitter, no, _supervisor_ is medium height, medium built, small and slender. Quite delicate. Light brown skin, thin nose, round cheekbones, and almond-shaped eyes that have an exquisite upward slant hidden behind heart-shaped sunglasses. She wears a disapproving frown shapely lips wrapped around the lollipop stick. Gives the stick a spin between her fingers. She's all sharp edges and sandpaper, contrasting with her initial impression. Because she's short and strident but unthreatening and _unintimidating_ —

"Hey, Joe!"

And she's grating. Potent. _Not quite_ intimidating. She reaches out a hand and he away, winces, and immediately regrets it.

Cold floor scratches the back of his neck. His head is pounding, aching. He closes his eyes, winces, blinks rapidly against the blinding, bleached lights and looks around, stunned and acutely attentive. The woman standing over him has a disapproving wrinkle to her nose. Her long dark waves hang over her right shoulder; pink lipstick mostly rubbed off due to the the lollipop now bobbing in one hand rest over the bend of her right knee as she squats above him. She wears three gold rings on one hand. Dangling earrings. She looks _familiar_. She isn't human.

He inhales, his shoulders heave, readying to bolt and _go_ , because he doesn't know where he is or who he's been lying in front of or what he's woken up _to_ —

"Take it easy, space captain." Her appearing upside down to him, and she places a hand on his shoulder to hold him down. "You'll need a minute."

"Where—ah—" The Underworld king blinks, rubs his eyes, begins to sit up slowly despite her warning, then suddenly his head is spinning. He's blinking rapidly. "Where am I?"

"Hey, _Joe_. You might not remember me, but I'm Lucky. Call me Lucky Lenny."

He runs a hand down his face. And his brain remembers, swims, a mental light bulb fizzling and fizzling until, _yes_ , it brightening with a _snap_ and a _pop_ as her familiarity clicks in his mind. He remembers her—that she's the daughter of the Goddess of Desire. "Joe? Who's _Joe_?"

"Joe. It's a combination of John Doe. _Joe_. It shortens it. Get it? Since you're new here and since they haven't collared you yet." She smiles. She thinks she's funny. "I like it—though you don't look anything like a _Joe_."

He blinks, squints up at her as she stands. It doesn't make any sense.

She smirks at her own cleverness.

He thinks she should work on her monikers.

Then she— _Lenny_ , pulls from her jacket a wrapped red and white candy. She sees he reel away, explains: "It's peppermint. A candy-mint thing. It'll help with the dizziness and headache. Make sure you don't _eat_ the wrapper, though. That part's not edible."

The God glances between her and the weird Earth candy.

She sighs, rolling her slanted eyes. Assures, "it's not poison, don't worry. Very few Earth foods can actually be for us. Besides, I'm not _stupid_."

Judging by her words, she definitely isn't a mortal. He digs the heels of is palms into his eye sockets, the light too bright and throbbing. "Where is this? And—tell me who are you? Again?" The room is singular, and lily-white, the walls seeming to hold its own glow.

The woman scoffs. " _Lenny_. Or Tyche. Or Nortia. Or _whatever_." She scuffs the toe of her heeled ankle boots against the bleach-white floor, hoping to leave a mark. "And you're on Earth. Um..." She watches him lower his hands and continue blinking. She draws her eyebrows together in confusion. "Is it Hades again...? Or Osiris...? Or is it something else now...?"

"I—don't know—don't _care_. Just—just—whatever. Just...go with whatever." He shields his eyes, trying to look up at her. "And who—can Solar of Luminous or _whoever is in charge here_ turn that light down?" He's growing agitated.

She smirks. "Nah, it's just you. No one's in charge here. And we can't change it; no one can. Not since you-know-who created it and has gone pretty much gone M.I.A. for centuries." She's almost shining with her own glow. Raises a finger to her chin. "Actually...I think I'm going to call you Joe..."

"Fine. Whatever."

There's some time he takes to finally rise to his knees and stand. Then, Lenny leads him to the single white door in the expansive room. It's both parts eerie and unearthly. He hasn't been through the Middlespace in centuries.

The single white door exits to flamboyant color and blaring noise and smells—burning cigarettes, the roaring of vehicles, screeching of tires, honking of taxi cabs, and people talking, talking, complaining, yelling. "Joe" has to pause to readjust. Lenny, who continued on, stops to wait when he doesn't follow. He's quiet. They're standing in an empty concrete lot behind a building, shielded from the busy streets bustling, crowded with humans.

"You sure you can do this? You look nervous, man." She runs over his wood ash-dusted hair, his rumpled collar, one shoe undone. "Her Majesty really did a number on you... How long has it been since you've been among mortals?"

"Some time. A while. Maybe a few hundred _decades_." Lenny's eyes widen, alarmed, concerned. So "Joe" quickly adds, "it's not like I particularly had a _say_ in the matter."

Her composure cracks. Gives a snort. "Are you serious?"

He blinks, glaring down to her.

"Yes. _Her Majesty_ decreed it probably _months_ before I—"

And then Lenny bursts into laughter.

He scowls.

She motions him forward to follow and leave. "You gotta—you gotta tell me the story, man. What drama's been happening up on Olympus because apparently I've been missing _a lot_."

* * *

"So lemme get this straight... Her High And Mighty kicked _you_ —The Overlord of Death— _out_ of Olympus because, what, you were," Lenny snorts, snickers, "pissing her off again because you wouldn't stop talking about your—your fucking _model_ _train sets_ or something—and were moping around for the past century and becoming more _emo_?"

"I'm not emo—-"

"I'm not emo," Lenny mocks. " _God_ , I _know_. But I still say you're wasting a major opportunity here. You could be, like, the next Ozzy Osborn or some shit with ultimate power. Some kind of death metal/Metallica—"

"Are you going to show me a room or not, _Lenny_?" He interrupts, not seeming the least bit pleased. He only wants to be in and out of this set vacation as quickly as possible, in less time, if Her Majesty allows it.

Both are currently walking down a dimly lit sidewalk near three in the morning. They are outside the main city. The city streets are speckled with random citizens. Cars fill the parallel spots lining the sidewalk. The moon is hidden behind trees and buildings. The death deity shivers, pulling his dark jacket tighter around himself. With the collar raised, unkempt hair, and the slight circles under his azure eyes, the dark god could very well pass for someone discomposed, or even _emo_.

Earlier, he had stopped in front of a window, gaping at his reflection and new face. Lenny told him that the customers inside were questioning.

Here, summertime is ending. A crisp wind blows. She isn't even sure if he's ever feel _cold_ before. She doesn't ask.

The tutelary deity stops and her shoulders fall. "Fine. This way, your pussy-ness."

He scowls, making a noise of disapproval.

She chuckles.

After given a quick abridgment about the new modern day, the dark god was given a wallet that holds an endless supply of currency, fashioned by the Magical Goddess. It gives the required amount when needed, so there's never too much and never too less. He was also given a preparatory on a few things about the modern civilizations by the Deity of Fleeting Foot, before the latter God fled. The next thing the death God knew, he was waking up in the Middlespace.

"So how long are you down here for?" Lenny is the spirit of prosperity and fortune. "A decade? Two? Hopefully not a millennia, because that would be a _biiitch_ for someone like you."

"Sixty Earth days," is the other's initial answer. But upon Lenny's following comment, his neck whips in her direction. "What's that supposed to mean?"

She chuckles. "Whoo boy! Sixty days! That's gonna be a doozie. For you, I mean. And if you don't want to look emo, then I suggest to lose the sulky black jacket and comb the hair. You look like a...a..." She snaps her fingers, trying to remember the word. She has him following her down an alley that opens into a street of crowded of mortals commuting. "A, uh, whaduya call those mortals again? The ones who do all that intoxicating stuff?" She holds two fingers to her lips, imitating the act of smoking.

The God's brows arch upward. "You mean drug addicts?"

"Yeah." Pulling away her hand, she asks if he happens to have any _goods_ on hand.

"Oh. So _you_ don't...?"

"No, man, of course not! That shit's bad for you." In reality, Lenny does less recreational and more destructive mortal drugs. "Because they really do give you a high. And they make you forget, like, all your worries and problems of this reality...and the ones in the next," she answers when he asked _why_. "But you gotta be smart about it. Because mortals around here, they're starting to get really picky about it, what and who you do it with. Not like back in the good old days."

He raises a brow in suspicion.

They enter the front doors of a six-floor building. Cigarette ends and torn shreds of old newspapers sprinkle the concrete beside the glass doors. Inside, the floor is aged and slightly cracked, the walls freckled with pushpin holes and concert flyers and _"Amanda + Ben 4ever"_ scripted in black Sharpie marker. One light overhead flickers. Further down the floor are the metal doors to an elevator besides the stairways leading to the upper floors. Lenny presses the up button on the elevator.

She turns. "Say..." Shuffles closer to his side as the elevator gears work. "Do you still do... _you know_." Her brows waggle. " _The thing_. You know..." And she makes a loud slurping sound in the air. "The..." And she makes a gesture of devil horns with her hands. "You should show me."

He glances over his shoulder and down the hallway like he's fearing to be get caught, like he's the kid way too anxious during a robbery. " _No_. It's not some party trick. I'm not just gonna go and do some—"

"Aren't you _not_ supposed to be doing any work? That's what I heard."

The elevator door dings and opens to a small band of humans who don't even look the immortals in the face as they leave for the double glass doors of the building. The God wears an offended, confused furrow of his brows. Lenny directs him inside the elevator.

She presses a numbered button to rise to the fifth floor. "Oh, and one more thing." Faint noises of the gears could be heard behind her words. They pass the second floor, the third. "The Gods don't exists."

And of course he's is taken aback, caught off guard, doesn't quite know how to respond. She speaks so calmly about it.

"Yeah, everyone and their troupe. Me, you. We don't exist anymore. It's a different world down here, buckko. A dog eat dog world. So as far as you know, you've got a clean slate. Because you aren't real."

"Aren't—aren't real?"

She nods.

The elevator rises past the third floor, fourth, approach the fifth. There are five floors total.

Still, the God uses the remaining seconds to process it. And then, it still processes difficulty.

He's heard of the change in mortal's faith and beliefs. Knew the overview of the change in history and the Gods' influences. But being among them, literally in the midst of it is different altogether. It's much different.

Lenny chuckles, laughs as the doors open. "You're mortal here, dude. Well, of course not _exactly_ , but you get it."

He has an eyebrow raised, eyes widened, and staring off to the side. She worries that he's questioning his existence.

"...Right?"


	2. Chapter 2

 

**/**

 

_If you were a god without worshipers and not an ounce of faith to your name, are you really a god?_

 

**/ /**

 

 

Gods always behave like the people who make them.  
**— Zora Neale Hurston**

 

* * *

 

It is by the Gods that we hunger, _crave_ , implore; that we are condemned to repent and prey for pardon from their malevolence. It is by the Gods that we do and what we don't, what we aspire and some of what we've become.

Or, at least, that's how it used to be.

Now it's been over three millennia which a human has seen a God. Over twenty generations since any human has had a message sent. Over one thousand and sixteen hundred years. Now prophets are supererogatory, oracles are unemployed, and visionaries are scammers.

Understandably, when prayers stopped being answered and visionary omens were continuous proved false, humanity began looking elsewhere, they began building their own alternative religions.

Today, the "new Gods" are made of circuit boards and gold. They're billionaires in pressed polyester suits, computer screens, and currency. They're those with the ability to further science and fill pockets of the political agenda and contort nature. Because _these_ are helpful, these things are useful and pay the bills and fix sick children and give _results_. Because the "old gods" are just myths—fantasies—fables—falsehoods— _stories_. Since no one has seen a God, the immortals decided to take a break for the next several millennia, seeing that humanity has began taking care of themselves—as the Gods _thought_ —and allowing them to govern their own short-term fates without intervention. And it goes all well and fine and dandy, except—

Except—

The Underworld deity couldn't recognize this world anymore.

The people are all still the same—mortal and predictable and diverse and feeble—but the architectures has evolved and there are _new laws_ and new commodities and the nature environment has changed and the wildlife has declined—

Oh, he thinks, He Of The Ocean and She Who Hunts would be _pissed_ by what he's seen.

In fact, the Underworld deity hasn't seen the deity of the oceans in a couple hundred years...

And the new technology—Lenny thinks it's the greatest thing since sliced bread. "Which, by the way, is _great_ too because it's already evenly distributed so no one can be a dick and cut a piece too large."

The night before, " _Gods aren't real anymore_ ," she had told him. "At least, not our kind. _That time_ is coming again. The next metamorphosis. The Evolving again. I feel it. At least I think so." She then had gotten distracted and asks if he has ever had a wish he could never be allowed to do, or a bucket list.

He doesn't give an immediate response. Slouches in the olive green lounge chair in her living room and studies the short-cut ends of his fingernails. He's taken off that annoying, oversized black jacket, to Lenny's relief.

What is the world without Gods? Just a lonely sphere turning through the vacuum of space for all eternity? And what about its people? Doomed forever to a life of corruption and dissipation?

He sits, arms spread over his knees, the sleeves of his shirt reaching his knuckles. This couch is too low for his liking.

Back on Olympus, Her Majesty sits on her throne, no doubt, knees crossed and precious metals wound elegantly around her long fingers. She has eyes that are soft and scathing, and a smirk as carnivorous as the Devil herself. She undoubtedly sits on her throne when she is free of duty, one foot on a footrest, the other raised to the armrest of the chair her husband is tied to—her once-vicious husband now dumb and anesthetize—and she'd give his wheeled chair a good _push_ and watch him roll down, down, down, his eyes crossed and limbs tied by Grade 120 and Grade 80 chains, until there is a crash. She'd sit back on her throne, silks and gold she wears un-wrinkled, matching with her look of apathy on her dark lips.

Centuries ago, her husband had been removed from his prison because the cup-bearer took pity on him and urged for a change of scenery. Her Majesty exiled the cup-bearer to The Land of The Damned for nine hundred and fifty Earth years. Her Majesty seems to like counting by Earth time.

The Queen of the Gods is high-spirited, strong-willed, saucy. She is the confident bull whose horns can't be controlled; she's dramatic, determined, and superficial. She's the Queen of the Gods, and when she finally entered the room and told the deity of death that he has been sent on a non-negotiable temporary leave— _after_ Poole coincidentally just explained, mind you. He hadn't dared go against The Queen. Because "Joe" might be ruler of the dead, but even he couldn't have tricked and imprisoned the mighty God King in his own castle. And Her Majesty has been reigning for nearly twenty hundred mortal generations now.

And after all this—

Lenny's apartment is worn and aged and not the _best_ kept, financially. He wonders why live here instead of somewhere where there aren't permanent stains in the floors? She's a _Goddess_ after all.

"Dude... _dude_! Why do you look like you're witnessing the loss of your cat? What's your damage?" Lenny slides inside the apartment. She slides the large, oversized coat from her shoulders, the front door clicking closed with a kick of her boot. Allegedly, she had been out for _business_ before picking him up in the empty, blank white room.

His response to her is a low glance and a troubled, off-set jaw.

He hears rather than sees her empty the contents of her pockets onto small table near one of the couches. A plastic bag is opened. His attention is on the pair of red birds singing on the ledge outside the window in the kitchen.

"Are you still mad about getting kicked out?"

He doesn't respond. So she cocks an eyebrow, shrugs, because she doesn't see it as a grave issue.

"You're human now, dude, so what?"

She still doesn't receive an answer.

Instead, Lenny breaths heavily, plopping her weight on to the nearest couch and throwing her feet up on the armrest. She gives an eye roll, and in a slightly sarcastic, slightly singsong tone, asks, "do you wanna talk about it...?"

Still, she's ignored. Once figuring out that "Joe" isn't going to comply, she scoots across the longer couch until she's at the armrest, closer to him. Her hair is pulled back in a high ponytail now, heart-shaped sunglasses resting on her forehead. She's sucking on a Blow Pop. "You're terrible at this, y'know. The skulking." She folds her arms, feet on the cushions; she's wearing a dark olive green tank top under a light brown leather jacket. And she watches him, how his hair is clumped and dusted with what she hopes is white cigarette ash, and he's almost _pouting_ , still on the edge of her living room single couch. The lollipop makes a slight suction sound as she takes it to hold the stick between her fingers, concludes, "you're so emo."

He glares. "I'm not—!"

"Then if you're _not_ , start wearing brighter colors. And get some sleep. I could almost swear you were a junkie in your past life."

She wonders if he has other facial expressions besides frowning.

She's smirking. Then, suddenly, quickly, her eyes widen, her lips part as if forming a sudden idea. But just as quickly her lips close and she doesn't speak it.

In the living room, the death deity toys with the sleeves of his stripped long-sleeved shirt. He's sure that Lennny must be _a little_ right about his clothes, probably, but it's not like he _owns_ any, so what he has on is all he has in his possession. She's done nothing but criticize them, from his black Retro high-top boots, worn shirt, and jacket that she obviously _hates_. Also where _did_ he get—

"What's your name anyway?" She pushes off the sofa to exit into the small kitchen where she trashes the half-eaten lollipop. From his angle, "Joe" couldn't see much but the kitchen window over the dual stainless steel sink, blinded slightly by the wall and doorway of the living area. But there's the banging of a frying pan carried from the cupboard to the stove top. Lenny glides across the floor in gray ankle socks with pink cat cartoons on the front.

At first, he's confused at what she is doing, what she's asking. In the kitchen, the stove is turned on. The refrigerator door is opened.

"Your _name_ ," Lenny calls, clarifies. "I explained that you need to make up one. You're human now, so you gotta have a name to blend in. A normal one. Preferably a cool one but ambiguous. think of it as another pseudo."

"You say it like there's something wrong with my names."

"There's everything wrong with your names. All of them." In the kitchen, she cracks six eggs into the frying pan hot with oil. The empty shells are put back in the slots of the carton. "You're _human_ now. Or must I repeat that seven more times?" Between her teeth, she places an unlit blunt retrieved from a container that once held toothpicks.

He's offended. His fingers curl, a rise of his brows. _How dare she! What disrespect to his name, his title, his doctrine!_

His voice rises in his disapproval. She responds with the same calm pose she's had since he arrived. "And you can't go around declaring that you're some Lord of The Underworld because you'll get locked up in a crazy house for that. A mental institute where they _aren't_ so nice." By her luck, the eggs scramble perfectly, not too soft and not too much brown. "And none of them will give you _good food_."

He takes a look around the living room. There's a bird cage without a bird hanging from a hook in the ceiling. A Styrofoam head for a curly wig sits near a coat rack that is currently full from clothing haphazardly thrown on its hooks. A naked mannequin stands in a corner, wearing hooped earrings and red target stickers over its breasts and vagina. Outside, a car honks angrily, and there's the shatter of a glass beer bottle, a dog barking. Of mortals commuting. It's lively. It's constant and _loud_. It's quite vexing, really.

"As nice as what?"

Lenny scratches the base of her neck before scooping the eggs onto a small white ceramic plate, creating fly-aways and loosening her ponytail. Her eye liner is beginning to run. "As _me_." She slides onto the armrest of the his couch and hands him the plate, wearing a slight smile. The mess on the plate look like yellow mush. And he wrinkles his nose. Then she realizes that he's likely hasn't had any food besides ambrosia for a hundred years.

"Don't be a wuss. You don't think it's time to change since, what, after centuries of being so?"

And again, he doesn't like her words, doesn't favor her tone.

And again, she shoots him down. Her smile evaporates and there's a mile-deep fissure around her mouth as she frowns, gaze clear and twice as thick with disdain when she sits straighter and looks him square in the eyes with immortal authority. It's startling, and it's unorthodox. "We're not on Mount Olympus anymore. Or in the immortal realm. You're on my turf now. Down here, everything's fair game. Your status here as a _God_ doesn't matter. You could die and there wouldn't be a thing Her Majesty could do about it—I mean, _you_ wouldn't be harmed, but your _body_ would be. You're human now, sweetie. Organic. So get used to the vulnerability." She explains that she could harm him just like he to could her, and she would not get punished by it. "Why?" she quizzes. "Because you're not a God here. You're just plain here, Joe, with a plain name with plain looks and a plain fake job, and a possible coke addiction." She notes at the mysterious white dust that's somehow found its way in his hair—maybe it's from debris on his way to meet her? Maybe someone dropped an ash dish over a balcony he walked under while exiting the Middlespace? "And here I'm Lenny Busker, the bitch with all the luck. And the people _love me_." By now he's baffled, and blinks, ignorant, and her dark eyes have become _sharp_ , challenging, _threatening_. "What do you got?"

He doesn't speak because he didn't have a good enough comeback. Theres jut the deep shadow from his brows, the tight-loped upturn of his mouth, and his eyes flint to the returning twitter of songbirds on the kitchen windowsill.

But, what _did_ he have? All his reinforcements—an army of souls back in the river Styx, his right and left hands fellow dark deities, a giant three-headed hound named Spot—all of them were back in the Underworld. He only has the clothes on his back, a pliable physical body—weak, brittle, _mortal_ body. And he is tired. So tired. And agitated. And there's a deep, clawing, burning _pain_ in his stomach.

The neighbors across the hall have kids—a child cries, they can hear; another thunders down the apartment stairs.

Lenny glances to the plate of food in her lap. She blows a breath out the side of her mouth, shoves the plate to him, and heaves off the armrest, a hand already pulling out her hair-tie. "Eat it or not, I don't care." Her leather jacket is shed atop a kitchen chair; she ignores his stare to her bare shoulder blades as she strides to a bedroom. From his position, he can see a corner of her bed—cerulean blue comforter, a pair of beige nude heels sticking out from underneath and on the floor.

The death deity pushes the eggs with a fork. His stomach pains, knots, and he cringes.

From her bedroom he then hears water running.

The stove top in the kitchen reads 9:38 in digital green.

He takes another look around her apartment. There is a crack in the wall near the front door that has been painted over. He wonders how long she thinks she can last in this place.

Looking back at the stove clock, it reads 10:04.

Lenny reemerges in a pale, off-pink bathrobe and toweling her hair dry. The other deity sees her for only a split second, the door walks past her open bedroom door to her small closet, putting in a pair of golden medium-sized hoop earrings. By now, "Joe"s eggs have turned lukewarm, and he mashes a corner down to crumbs. His stomach grumbles.

Inside her bedroom, she throws clothes over her shoulder, then to retrieve a hair brush from her dresser. Her toweled brown hair reaches the curve in her back. "Stay here for the night. I have somewhere to be," is all she speaks as she strides from her dresser to her bed—ordering like an adult to a child; the mother who is to take a quick run to the supermarket because they are out of cereal and milk. Through the little space seen from the bedroom doorway, the death deity watches her hold a teal dress up to her chest, previewing the look in a full body mirror, and switching it with a flowing silk white dress with golden floral print.

In this scenario, "Joe" here—as he's been currently nicknamed—is the child, and he knows it. He knows that Lucky Lenny has more leverage, more experience, and possibly more free range than he. He knows that now isn't the time to create quarrels, and so he doesn't ask where she has to be. He doesn't say anything.

"The humans of this region are quick and timely. They're always running, always rushing, like they know how short their lives are." She's leaning across the cherrywood dresser, applying mascara in the wide mirror there. He can only see her calves.

The other fidgets with the ends of his long sleeves. He hears a bottle capped and then something twist open. He stabs a clump of eggs with the fork, holds it close to inspect.

"I'll be staying at a hotel for however long." She emerges holding both dresses by the hangers in one hand. She tosses a business card for him to catch, and asks which outfit looks _sexier_.

He raises an eyebrow, unanticipated. His answer is a confused shake of his head.

And she's disappointed. "Seriously? Come on; you're not blind. I have to leave in the next twelve minutes. Don't tell me you've turned a saint as well as a bore? Which one, Joe—um...you really need to pick out a name. You really need to pick a pseudo because Joe just _doesn't_ fit you." She switches the dresses, holding the silk teal up to her chest, and then the long white in front of herself like she had done before the mirror. "Green or white?" She's in matching grey lace underwear, not modest or uneased in the slightest. Her hip pops to the side.

He blinks—she notices how _blue_ his eyes are, albeit wide and puzzled. "Um... The white one?"

Chin tilting, she considers it, eventually agrees. "Alright. Now was that so hard?"

Two minutes later, the stove reads 10:27, and Lenny is fully dressed, makeup complete, and she's grabbing her purse from the coat rack—a brown leather Louis Vuitton that evoke questions in his head of how she affords luxurious belongings when her apartment floors squeak and a neighbor downstairs has holes in his walls and the stairs squeal and the first floor littered with forgotten garbage.

"It's supposed to rain today, so don't leave," she adds, sliding on the beige heels seen earlier. From her appearance, she could be assumed to hold a job at Wall Street. "There's more food in the fridge, so help yourself—" A loud gurgle interrupts her. She sees her temporary guest flinch. And then she sees the plate still full of food. "And no, _good god_ , I didn't poison it! Jesus Christ! Is that why you haven't eaten?" She feels like she's babysitting a child. "You're going to need it, so eat up, dude. I should be back—I dunno—sometime tomorrow morning if this goes good."

Again, he doesn't question.

Seconds later, Lenny is gone, has locked the apartment door, and is rapidly jamming her finger into the _down_ elevator button.

The Death God still has the plate of yellow eggs. The steam has gone away, the food cold now. He spots a fire-lighter on the cherrywood tabletop of an end table between the sofas. The business card in his hand is wrinkled. There's a clip art of green vines and leaves along the side. The typography is bold and a darker green. He sees that Lenny's put pepper in the scrambled eggs.

* * *

There's a hotel down North 34th Avenue in Manhattan, New York. Four star rating. Slightly above average pricing for the area. Shiny floors, carpeted interior, a gym and laundry room and twenty-four-seven open bar. There's a plasma TV in every guest room, along with complimentary alcoholic beverages in the fridges, and a digital safe. There's an imitation crystal chandelier hanging in the middle of the lobby. Pleather couches. Marble counter tops. Nice enough service; a staff that wears pressed uniforms and who don't pay too much attention to its tenants walking in and out. Once there had been a robbery in the lobby, and the robber was never caught.

Lenny brisks through the automatic front doors. She's scrolling her phone for a number of the one she is to meet that night. She knows that he will be dressed formally, as per description in his instant message chat and profile picture—a charcoal wool suit and burgundy tie. Tall. Mid to late forties. Not exactly her type but that isn't the focus.

She goes straight to the bar because her date should be here already. There in the party room behind the lobby a gathering is happening of hors d'oeuvre and music for tenants to mingle.

The time on her golden Nordstrom watch reads that it is nearing 11 at night.

At the front of the room, a singer croons jazz along with a live band, and the room is crowded. The room is ritzy—a partial mix of Burberry, crystal, and opulence. The people here are fashionable, preeminent, and prosperous. Lenny fits in like a fake diamond dropped in a bag of genuine ones—she's convincing on the surface. But then again, she has been for over four decades that she's lived among humans.

Lenny catches sight of a woman talking near a wall of the room; the woman is waving her hands around in a conscious display of her golden rings as she talks. The diamond there is probably six carats, the Goddess guesses. The boastful woman wears a Swarovski necklace, diamond encrusted earrings. The three other woman she talks too are equally laden with embroidery. Lenny surveys the room again before swiveling back to the bar.

Stretches her hand across the shiny black counter top of the bar, she calls attention to the bartender hoping fro be served a drink. She guesses the music is too loud and is why he goes to attend to another patron instead. However, when she deliberately waves an arm, she realizes that he ignoring her and grows heated. She sighs impatiently then slightly slouches before readying to stand and go behind the counter to face him herself if need be. That doesn't happen, however, when a large hand comes down on her shoulder and there's a flash of that fight-or-flight—of alarm, of defensiveness—and she knows that she can easily putter hand over his, nails digging into the tendons of his knuckles, could easily so easily sprain his wrist if not completely twist it off, and _how dare_ this mortal is so arrogant to place his hand on her and _suspect_ he could order her—

The man behind her takes a sip from his short glass, she sees, guessing it to be bourbon, and he mutters for her to remain seated because, "calm down, don't worry. I got this, beautiful." His voice is baritone and reminds her of wet gravel. He successfully gains the bartender's attention.

"How can I help you, sir?"

He has a practiced smile, she observes. It's as stale as the rest of him. And thinning hair. "Nothing for me," he briefly holds up his one fourth of remaining Chambray to the bartender. "But why not ask the lady what _she_ wants? She's been wanting a drink for a minute now."

The bartender apologizes frantically and takes Lenny's order of a simple glass of vodka with ice. The man beside her looks impressed. She smiles innocently.

"You must be Ms. McAdams? Patricia McAdams?"

Lenny nods at the false name. Winks. Her mascara sparkles in the dim lighting.

"You look even more beautiful in person," the man admires.

Lenny's smile widens, hiking up the skirt of her dress by crossing her knees. Her voice is disguised under a syrupy-sweet guise as she annunciates every syllable and adds the hint of a Latina accent. And she's entrancing, delicate, snazzy. A crystal-cut jewel encased in velvet. Wind chimes in a storm. She raises her short glass as she speaks. "And you must be Johnathan. Thanks for that." She means about the bartender. "Not much chivalry exists today, so that was really favorable toward you. I like guys like that."

"Well it's nice to know that I'm in that few majority."

Eye contact is held when both drain the remains of their drinks. Then, he informs of dinner reservations he's already made. And Lenny smiles and accepts his outstretched hand because why not? There would be free food from it.

"Just let me escape to the little girl's room first, alright?"

Even before they began talking online, she's read up on this one, and from the first chat, everything she's done is to mold him. He'll think that he's got her in his hand as they empty half of a bottle of champagne and have a light dinner of pricey entrées and then take the elevator up to his booked room, sexual tension clouding the air, and as she leans against the elevator railing and he gives her a lecherous look, he thinks that she's drunk enough and he has her like he tipsily desires—his woman lecherous, easy, _pretty,_ and compliant. He'll come closer and slide his hand across her throat, mesmerized by her eyes, her lips, the unmarked smooth, _enticing_ skin of her throat, before dipping lower to cup her breasts and then lowering the dip between her thighs as he closes the space between them. He brings his mouth down to hers and the kiss it's hot and slightly sweaty and his stubble of facial hair _scratches_ and Lenny grimaces, pulling away for breath. But he takes that as an invitation to kiss the side of her neck seconds before the elevator doors opens to their floor. He'll think that he has her purring like a kitten when in reality it is she who's coaxing him into the palm of her hands, him falling for every moves of hers, her traps and ego-inflating compliments.

It's sometime around seven in the morning when she awakes in bed with the sheets tossed over half of her body and she can feel their dried fluids between her thighs and on her backside, and his large arm draped around her shoulders. He's quite hairy. Lenny makes a sound of disgust.

Overall, he isn't her type. But she hadn't come with plans to search for a romantic _type_.

Her eyes squeeze closed, stretch wide. With a low, distasteful groan, flashbacks of last night flood her memory. She wipes her mouth, her neck and shoulders because she can still feel the scratching of his facial hair. Like the current ache where her right thigh had been pressed compress against the edge of the desk, her left bent at her side, his hands griping _here_ and squeezing _there_ and he's everywhere, the desk shaking and he's disgustingly _sweating_ and Lenny begins counting along with the digital clock on the bedside table.

She rolls her eyes. A feeling that is not quite disgust, but not quite _isn't_ either causes her body to shutter. It's not quite because this is all a performance that has been rehearsed and executed many times over. Decades of times. Too many times. Lenny shrugs his arm off and rolls out from under the sheets.

The plan was to wear him out—which she sees has worked efficiently when he doesn't wake when her feet touch the floor. The sun peeks out behind the thick window shade. Not bothering to cover up, she locates his discarded suit jacket and pants pooled somewhere on the carpet. She finds business cards in the inside jacket pockets and a backup condom which he hadn't bothered to mention he was in possession of. There's a crumpled napkin and an ink pen in the outside pockets of his suit jacket. In his pants she finds his wallet and it's thinner than she expects. He told that he doesn't like carrying cash, but she didn't think how truthful that was when watching him tip the bartender a crisp twenty before dinner. Inside his wallet she finds two fifty dollar bills and a ten—the ten dollar bill which she leaves for his cab home. In the other wallet compartments she finds his credit cards.

This was the end goal of her rendezvous.

Suddenly the bed creaks. She freezes, naked and crouched on the floor with stolen cards in one hand, hair misshapen, pulse racing watching the man give out a quiet moan before turning over, still very much asleep. Her lips pull back in detest, releases a sigh of relief.

Certain that _Johnathan_ is asleep, she finds her purse left on the small kitchen counter and retrieves a small device that she scans each of his credit cards and driver's license. Once more Johnathan tosses in his sleep and Lenny has a sudden quickening in her heartbeat. When he stills again, she tiptoes to the bathroom to uses her cellphone to take pictures of the fronts and back of each card, the flash on and phone sounds silent.

His wallet is returned as if it had never been touched.

Before he awakes that morning, Lenny would have already redressed, this time donned only in mascara and lip gloss. She takes one last look at him—tall, hairy back and chest, pudgy, and in need of a facial shave. Human. Feeble. Mortal. He snores. She can smell his morning breath that's tinged with alcohol. She wouldn't have been able to go back to sleep here even if she wanted.

He'll probably wake in thirty minutes to another hour, she guesstimates.

Before she leaves, Lenny runs her left hand under running water. Without shaking her hand dry, walks over to the side of the bed closest to Jonathan's ear. She leans near, whispering a libidinous string of words, flicking drops of water over him. Within seconds, her spell makes his heavy breathing calm and quiets, deepening. Her eyes glance at the large silver watch on his wrist, then to the bed, to the door, to the kitchen, back to the watch, to the door, then back at the watch, to his still sleeping face to the watch again, and—

Lenny leaves the hotel with one hundred and twenty dollars in cash and copies of six credit cards belonging to a wealthy man. She's the woman wearing dark sunglasses with a designer leather bag hanging in the crook of her elbow and a confident smirk because she's _sure_ —about the  _pop_  and the sway of her hips, of flawless upper-scale wardrobe, of her security and confidence because  _of course_ she would have the best luck out of everyone in this world. But—of course she would. And she's sure that she's got everything under control. Because she's certain, secure, and confident.

A note of a simple "Had fun sweetie" punctuated with a heart as the only evidence of her ever being there.


	3. Chapter 3

 

**/**

 

Since Gods can be transformed and exchanged so easily - say, if someone wishes to change faiths - aren't they just as expendable as people?

 

**/ /**

 

 

"To suffer is to produce knowledge."  
**— Emil Cioran, _The New Gods_**

 

* * *

 

When Lenny returns to her apartment, the front balls of her feet are beginning to _ache_ , her hair is an attempt of a retouch that lost against wind. She limps through the front door, and immediately drops her purse, removes her heels, and releases a drawn out sigh before putting on all five of the door's locks. The apartment is silent and solitary.

Lenny has grown used to the quiet. It's the ticking of the clock hear from the bookshelf, the soft rain beginning to pour the outside, and the soft glow of the tv left on. Later, she'll remember the pot of now-cold pot of coffee, her mug left in the sink, that she should probably return that unopened packet of shower caps.

She enters her living room and pauses, seeing her new roommate sprawled across the same single sofa chair he had been in when she left. Now, his arms are splayed across the armrests, legs spread open, and head tossed over the back of the chair, mouth open letting out soft snores. To be honest, Lenny had forgotten that he is here. She wonders when the last time he had gotten sleep, and how frequently he'll need it.

The plate of eggs, empty now, sits on an end table. The television remote is on the floor beneath where his right hand hangs. PBS Kids plays on screen.

"Fan of Sesame Street now are we?" is mused aloud.

He doesn't wake; he must have been watching the news when falling asleep.

Lenny turns off the television, retreats to her bedroom where she strips down to her underwear and climbs under the covers. She releases another tired sigh, already feeling the soothing fingers of sleep reaching, taking hold, lulling her to rest.

She's probably three minutes into dozing off when her name is called—Lenny, not Patricia or some other pseudo—and her eyes fly _open_ to see the entertainer of death standing in her doorway.

She wonders what would happen if she were to kill a fellow God.

She isn't respectful at all as she growls, " _what_!?"

He watches, stares. She's wrapped up in a blanket like a burrito, makeup creating smokey smudges around her eyes. And Lenny is ready to _snap_ at him, possibly throw something, curse, because doesn't he see that she's _tired_ and had to deal with so much _shit_ already—

A loud gurgle sounds in the room. The other feels his stomach contract, twist, and it _hurts_. He cringes. Lenny remembers the empty plate of eggs.

"I need you to tell me where Portland is," comes his reply.

She blinks. Looks from his firm gaze to his stomach to the straight line set of his mouth.

She pauses. Blinks. "What?"

"Portland. Where is it?"

" _Why_? What could you _possibly_ do in _Portland_?"

He hesitates, his mouth opening and closing, silently searching for words—or lies—before blurting the truth. "There were six kids who fell through ice—"

"And they're likely dead already. So?"

"And a party who were lost in the snow in—"

"And shit like that happens."

"There was a traffic pileup on—"

"Aren't you supposed to be on break," Lenny interrupts again, propping herself up on an elbow.

"Yeah," he admits. He's twitchy, like he's either nervous or doesn't have enough to do. She feels like he's about to lie. "But—"

"You're on _break_. Vacation. That means to _rest_. Calm your stitches. Remember, you're not supposed to intervene with mortals. So, no. ...Unless you want _Her Majesty_ to scold you...?"

She knows that he's going to scowl at that, so she shrugs. She's tired and had to deal with one obnoxious male already.

"Don't get mad at me. Because I don't make the rules, Joe—God, I _hate_ that name now. Plus you could use a vacation—and a little _happiness_ in your life."

His brows arch upward. Yet he continues to try to find a reason to travel. And once more, Lenny interrupts him and changing the subject.

"Have you found a name?"

"My—a-a what?"

"A _name_ , Einstein. We talked about this."

He looks off to the side, thinking, creating some excuse in his mind. Lenny's expression turns to one that's unconvinced.

"No? Coincidentally don't remember, huh? Then leave me alone to sleep until you do." She pulls blankets up to her chin, rolls over to turn her back to her bedroom door. "My feet hurt. I'm done with this conversation. If you need anything...there's food in the fridge. _Don't_ burn the place down, though."

* * *

On the news, there is a story about a mix-up by international airport security.

The death diety watches a stray cat catch a redbird from the windowsill. He eats scrambled eggs for the next day, and by the second, has mastered the cooking. For two days straight he eats scrambled eggs before Lenny scolds him of going through two cartons, and taunting about him being a _plain Jane_. She purposely doesn't restock and he switches to cereal and Chef Boyardee instead.

Whenever Lenny walks in, one of two news channels is always playing, droning, reiterating travesty after travesty. He'll watch anxiously, transfixed, holding a breath and a knee bouncing and knuckles turning white from clutching the chair.

She'll light a joint between her lips, open the window to refill the bird feeder hanging, and oder takeout. She thinks he should shave soon. She doesn't voice it.

* * *

Lenny never stays. That is something he first notices, and he isn't eager to follow anyway. There are a lot of humans the city, enough to easily get lost in a crowd.

From the living room window, a child is separated from his parents, the hidden deity sees one day. It's lightly raining. He watches the young boy, probably no more than two years old, grows scared in the fruitless search for his parent up and down the sidewalk. The child begins to cry. Bystanders walk pass, hurrying, ignoring. The God scowls. Humans are supposed to be compassionate, zestful, reliable, but have now turned cynical and selfish. The boy cries. The brunette God scavenges an umbrella from the bottom of the coat rack. Standing on the landing outside the apartment door, Lenny's words replay in his head to not leave the apartment, to not interact with mortals. He stops, contemplates. He faintly hears the child crying. By the time he finally descends the stairs and exits the building, the parent is running back to the child and scolds their boy before pulling him along. The deity stands in the rain under the black umbrella.

There's so many humans here that one could quickly become lost. Swallowed within the masses. Hide within plain sight.

At night, the death deity lies in the dark, thinking about a recent bombing reported on the news that day, fretting about the lives lost. He presses the balls of his palms into his eye sockets.

He's been referred to as many names throughout countless civilizations. But for as long as his existence has been, his job and reputation has ultimately remained the same: to watch over the souls of the deceased. If it came to it, guide and help them, deter even. And here, in _their_ world, ironically,he can't even do the simplest part of his job. But then Her Majesty's sharp eyes cut into his subconscious vision and her words, no, _orders_ with her poise and calm timbre: "you either take a chill pill or I'll toss you out like last season's Jimmy Choos. Because I refuse to work with a _madman_ , you hear? Don't let me repeat it twice, dear brother."

He shivers.

He doesn't sleep well that night.

The day Lenny returned from that hotel, she instructed him to not leave the apartment for the next three days, and she had neither. As soon as the days were up, she dressed in a long cardigan and rain boots and was out the door. She returned that early evening with lamb gyros from a street vendor. An episode of Law And Order played as she informed him of the ins and outs of the city. She hands him a packaged cell phone. He's on her _plan_ , she tells him.

Two days later, the meteorologist predicts a rainstorm by midday.

While sitting on the apartment stairs, the death deity hears the neighbor's kid chatter about how they are growing bean plants in class. Once, he asks Lenny why she doesn't hang up color, have anything _living_ —plants, a pet, _something_. Her eyes roll up toward his direction, her chin still pointed down at her book she had been reading. She gives an answer that's more like a ridicule about relocating and resettling and restlessness and in this point of her immortal life she doesn't want to be bothered by such trivial things.

It's now a total of eleven days he has scratched off on his mandatory vacation—Lenny gave him a pocket calendar book, which he doesn't question where she got it from. That much he's learned so far.

The passed time is noticed is while Lenny is pouring herself a cup of freshly brewed Starbucks coffee in the middle of her small kitchen. She's in her fluffy, pale, off-pink bathrobe and she _freezes_ , as she actually appears stunned and almost— _almost_ —remorseful when she realizes. Her roommate looks up from his second bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch; to him, it's just another afternoon. Lenny tries to start a conversation, offer suggestions on ways to _spice up_ his Earthly vacation—an outing, a cook night, a vodka ice pop—he wrinkles his nose instead, and shoots a _judging_ glance.

She concludes that he's still as indecisive and _boring_ as he was a thousand years ago.

He glares at her over his bowl.

* * *

So, she leaves when he's watching the twelve o'clock news and enjoy yet another afternoon as a home-body, listening to stories of vehicle crashes and knife stabbings.

When she leaves, it's late noon. By the time she's returning home, it's late, the city lights illuminate the streets. Somewhere, music is loudly playing.

Lenny runs a hand through her dark hair. It's frizzing. She can feel sweat gathering beneath her jacket. She grumbles in frustration.

Holding a hand out, she works to flag down a taxicab. Three pass by before one finally pulls over. She has to jump back to avoid getting splashed by the flooded water near the curb.

It's been raining all week. She hates the rain.

She climbs into the backseat and tells the address of her destination—some street a block from her apartment.

She leans her head back against the headrest, lets out a relieved sigh. The driver honks at cars who won't let him back on the road. There's a lingering smell of cigarettes and cheap cologne in the seats. Lenny adjusts in her seat.

The streetlights float across the interior seats and dance across Lenny's clothes. She'll be retiring home at nine-something that night. She had been out... _working_ , taking care of _God_ business, she'll say. Helping a student get accepted to grad school. Allowing homeless boy finding a dollar bill on the sidewalk. An owner finding his dog. The cabdriver tries to make small talk but his sentences go around in circles, and the car eventually goes silent. When they arrive at a stoplight exiting Time Square, a chill runs up Lenny's skin. She thumbs her thin wallet in the pocket of her olive green jacket. She's the only other in the taxicab, so when her name is called, another presence suddenly appearing beside her, she jumps like a rabbit against the side door's window.

Her hand flies to her chest. "Jesus! You nearly scared the _daylights_ out of me! Maybe a little _warning_ next time, yeah, Ally?"

The gentleman next to her is almost a decade older in outer appearance. His poker face changes to one of annoyance upon her greeting. "For the seven thousandth, five hundred and twenty—"

"Twenty- _fourth_ time now," she mocks. "I _know_. What is it? Before you give me a heart attack next."

"—Call me _Alaleem Kutbay_ again now. And I need to pass on a message. Actually, it's more of a warning. Her Majesty doesn't know. Not yet."

As he talks, Lenny reads his features: cautious, carefully, unconfident. He isn't supposed to be here. When he mentions the queen of the Gods, she glances at the driver.

"He can't hear or see me," Alaleem answers her thought aloud. "Only you." He adjusts in the beaten cushion, pulls out a penny from underneath his thigh. Sneers. He continues. "I know that you were assigned to share your living quarters with The King Below during the duration of his, um, _break_. I need to warn you. Goddess of prosperity, be cautious; I had a vision that something devastating and dire could happen. The collapse of a world. Of a darker rule. A blanketing darkness that simulates the tales of Erebus. Of destruction and panic. And, perhaps, the erasing of us all Gods."

The driver honks at a passing minivan. He gives no indication that he's aware of the conversation in his backseat.

Lenny is still staring at Alaleem, silent, brows drawn together—not quite in confusion but not quite understanding his cryptic message either. "And what does this have to do with the ol' lord of death? He's too twitchy and drowned in his duties to really worry about anything. The guy's strung tighter than a popped guitar string."

"In my vision, he had been defeated... But someone—I'm not sure who exactly—was towering over him, and they were _dark_. Like— _wrong_. The King Below was defeated along with Her Majesty, your mother, and every last one of us." In the dim lighting, Lenny could swear his lip quivered.

Now, she's become visibly worried. Her hands ball into fists atop the knees of her fishnet stockings. City lights flash across the shadows of her features—flickers of blue, white, red, white, green, yellow.

"I'm not sure...but I have a feeling that he could be a cause of it if he stays down here for too long. I did see him—."

Lenny's brows arch, amazed. "Is this feeling of certainty or more of a hunch?"

Alaleem takes a moment to think. He isn't sure about the vision but had felt that he should consult Lenny as soon as possible about it, even risking telling her first before The Queen. Lenny is the one closest to him as of now.

She flexes her manicured fingers. "How about this," she shifts in the beaten seats. "I'll keep a close eye on the guy. If that will make you feel a little bit better? I won't let him out of my sight, ok?"

She sees him visibly relax. She rests a hand on over his knee just as the taxi driver turns a corner a little too sharply.

One of the gifts Alaleem possesses is Sight. He can prophecy events of the coming future. But because predicting the future is such a tricky duty, he is often plagued with worry and anxiety because if the events and peoples' choices line up _just right_ , it could create the difference of another world, result in the death of another, or winning the lottery. The God is plagued by visions involving both the mortal and immortal, and Lenny knows of the months and years he has spend dreading and fretting.

The other God thanks her. Lenny has to force a returning smile. And just as suddenly as he appeared, he's gone, not a trace of him ever having been there.

The car slows. They have entered her neighborhood.

The driver looks over his shoulder to ask where exactly she wants to be dropped off. The temperature outside has dropped. He tells that he has three daughters at home and asks if Lenny is sure she doesn't want to be driven to the doorstep of her place of residence.


	4. Chapter 4

 

**/**

 

Gods are notorious for taking part in mortal activities, fornicating with them, living among them, nearly becoming one of them. What fascinated them so about mortal humans, when Gods are supposed to be great and powerful?

 

**/ /**

 

 

"I believe in good timing. I believe in God's timing."  
**— (via kushandwizdom)**

* * *

Lenny is the one over fortune and luck. She influences the prosperity and fate of whatever city she inhabits, this govern given to her by the goddess, also her mother, the Goddess of desire and pleasure and love.

Not appearing a day over twenty-four, Lenny wears a sapphire blue sleeveless crop top, black high-waisted jeans, and wedge-heeled boots, and sporting heart-shaped sunglasses even though it is not sunny. Her long dark hair is tied up in a high ponytail that sways between her shoulder blades as she dances atop tables with a shot-glass in one hand and phone numbers scribbled on discarded napkins filling the pockets of her short, frayed-ends denim shorts. Her fingernail polish is usually chipped on the ends. She has two piercings in each ear, and the death deity thinks he once saw a jewel on her bellybutton poke out beneath the hem of her shirt. She wears a ring engraved with Venus' symbol and hearts around her index finger. She never takes it off. She's energetic, unsatisfied, and _well known_ apparently, because wherever she goes _someone_ knows her or there's _somewhere_ she can go to get what she needs and desires through _connections_. She's the goddess of luck and that quite regularly works out in her favor.

Throughout her existence, Lenny has been in several historical events, have swayed the winning of countless battles, has influenced a number of ancient occurrences, had a hand in the cause of millions of humans' life events, and—

And travels to a location behind an abandoned building underneath an unused overpass at nine in the morning is not where the Death God though would be her end destination.

He follows regardless, much like a child after its parent, a pack of Twizzlers in one hand, an edge torn open for easy access.

She hides a large Givenchy purse under her leather jacket. Inside it, she's stolen a Rollux watch, a sterling silver pocketwach, and diamond encrusted dog collar, and several dollar bills she's been able to pickpocket. Originally the deity of luck, and just as the rest of the Gods, she's had to find ways to adapt to the new age and cope. Especially since having been discharged to Earth.

Before reaching their destination, the death deity comments about the items: "isn't it counterproductive for _you_ to be _stealing_?" And he looked over his shoulder like he's on his first heist. He defineitly doesn't have the nerves for it, she commented under her breath. He had asked after watching firsthand as she pick pocketed her way to meeting back with him outside a Subway. He had bought a footlong egg breakfast sandwich. Half of it is left, which she grabs and devours.

Her reply between chews had been, "that didn't bother you when you ate half of that bag." She points out the bag of candy he'd quickly emptied.

He looked back at her, dumbfounded. He had not known she stole that too.

And he knows that this isn't the most extreme a fellow immortal has strayed from their original intention, so he isn't _too_ shocked. Hell, he _was_ caught off guard even though he knew that he shouldn't be. Probably. Not really. He's just anxious.

Under the overpass is not _tidy_ , of course—littered with newspapers, trash, broken glass bottles, dented metal cans, discarded kegs, and abandoned furniture—and the God is _disgusted_. He stands back and closes his eyes as if that would make it all go away. He hears— _Lenny_ to the mortals, as she's told him—negotiating with a bald man in a Yankees jersey and Timberland boots She's trying to exchange what she's stole for... _drugs_ , if the God remembers correctly.

His brows raise as he watches her smile and greet the bald man. The God is wearing that black jacket she hates.

Lenny licks her fingers and begins counting dollar bills that too had been stolen.

A second mortal sits on a high wooden kitchen stool lighting a bong. He inhales deeply, coughs. A hound sniffs at an opened can.

The God frowns.

Lenny's dealer outstretches a hand and motions for her to pay more, to which she begins complaining.

The hound strolls to the death deity, barking loudly and in warning. The God watches, bewildered, as the dog's growing turns aggressive although he's has only been _standing there_. It's a medium sized dog, a mutt, the size that most mortals take as a companion and not an accessory. Though to him, the animal reminds him more of a rat.

The God scowls. The dog growls, snaps. He jumps in reflex, then peers closer, leaning forward toward the dog. It immediately steps backwards.

The man smoking the small hookah exhales a deep breath.

The hound dares to step forward toward the Death God again. It gives a violent jolt, and then the fur along it's muzzle begins to grey. It continues snarling, and him unsettled, his brows drawn together. He watches, astounded, as the mutt's fur begins to very slowly but surely turn to grey as if it's suddenly aging rapidly.

The God stares. And stares. And stares, quizzingly. He outstretches a hand, then draws it back as the dog's jaws snap.

Lenny's dealer nods in the other immortal's' general direction. "He with you?"

She scuffs the toe of her shoe into the loose gravel, assures it true. She's embarrassed almost, at the grown man who is as restless and perturbed as someone spiked on unprescribed Adderall and who doesn't know to _not_ pet an animals that snarls at you.

"He has nothing to do with this," Lenny assures.

"Then why is he here?"

Damn.

"He's—he's here on vacation. He's a cousin of mine."

"You know our policy about outsiders—" He begins when she interrupts him, still speaking off the top of her head.

"Then how are you going to expand if you don't accept a few outsiders?" She holds her breath as he considers, and she watches the gears turn behind his eyes. Her lungs exhale when he nods in agreement. He comments that this cousin of hers—" _distant_ cousin," she corrects—must not be the brightest of the bunch, huh? The man calls the hound over and away from the God.

"He's still adjusting to the move," she lies further.

Her dealer looks between her and the other immortal cradling his bitten hand. Eventually, Lenny is handed a small prescription bottle filled with pills.

She leaves with one less Rollux watch and one hundred and ten dollars short.

As soon as they are a block away, Lenny doesn't hold back her criticism. "Jesus! You act like you've never been in an organic body before. And don't say those forms you take in Olympus count because they _don't_."

His excuse is that he _hasn't_ occupied an organic form in hundreds of years. "So excuse me if I'm a bit rusty and _forget_ some things."

"Like letting a rabid dog _bite_ you? They're not much different than wolves, you know."

"I can get that—"

"Ok, they're different, but not _that_ different, ok? Doesn't mean you go around sticking your hand in everything like you're _five_." And she continues to rip at him for the next three blocks, going on about needing to avoid hospitals and suspicious looks and speculators.

"So to constantly live in fear here too?"

She denies so. But when he asks for clarification, she can't supply a clear one.

* * *

It's half past eleven in the afternoon.

Crisp-cold drops of rain are beginning to streak the ivory curtained umbrella over wire metal tables outside a downtown Starbucks.

A radio station is playing the local hits from inside, the music drowned out by the coffeeshop background noise. The line to the cashier doesn't lessen; a barista calls out an order for a 'Beyonce,' and everyone inside the shop roll their eyes.

Lenny's cell phone is turned face down to the metal table, the ringer on low. Her hoop earrings glisten when the sun peeks through he clouds.

Two tall, transparent plastic cup is resting between them, one with plain tap water, mostly full. And there's a scone, gleaming with crystalized sugar and bits of candied cranberry is lying forgotten on an emerald-green logo embroiled company napkin.

The two deities are spending the afternoon downtown because Lenny wanted him to try lattes and to see first hand how to use an industrial-sized blender that was _wicked_ fucking loud because she has one and if he broke it—and there are _hordes_ of mortals who come for chai teas and spiced drinks and who he like to _flirt_ and mingle and it's _fun_ Lenny insists.

She calls him a stick in the mud.

A blonde woman in a sunshine yellow dress and sunflower and rose designs makes an order. His gaze lingers, longs. Lenny catches this and grows silent until the woman leaves. She then clears her throat for the other's attention.

The God wraps his hands around his plain-water cup, takes a sip from the long green straw.

Somewhere in the large shop, a Walmart-bought clock is ticking darkly while a brand-new pack of remade infused chilled drinks are being poured into clear tall plastic cups. Outside, a couple the thad been chain-smoking get up to leave. A trio of schoolgirls enter the cashier line, eyes glued to the screens of their phones.

It's placid.

It's normal.

It's _congested_.

"What is the big deal about _names_? It's not like we haven't had hundreds before."

Lenny's sunglasses are firm on the bridge of her nose as she barks a laugh and slyly makes the cashier receive a larger tip than necessary. She then rolls her neck, cracks her knuckles, and tugs her jacket tighter around her.

"It's a cover. To blend in. To _adjust_." She slides a stolen golden ring on and holds up her left hand to the light as she admires it. "Like I said: you can't go around telling people you're some kind of _God_."

"And why not? If I—if you and I are not even—"

"It's because you're not fucking _stupid_ and you don't want to be—" Her hands falls to the table with a small thud. Her glasses slide. "Look, just—we can talk about this back at my place just not _here_. Alright? Good. Now, just pick out a name. Get this over with." She slides her sunglasses in place on her forehead, leans back into the wire chair.

They're outside the Starbucks coffee shop. An iced coffee sits half empty on the table beside her elbow. People swarm in crowds less than a foot away as the bustling city never cease. There is foot traffic coming in and out the cafe. Lenny's purse sits beside her in the chair. Inside it are the remaining belongings she's stolen, the fake credit cards she's copied Jonathan's information onto, all but one maxed out. She takes a sip from her coffee's straw. The other deity watches, staring, studying; he's curious. She thinks he's glaring.

The coffee shop space feels small and cramped from the abundance of people and it's located in one of those small corners, neighbored by mom-and-pop stores—a gleaming corporate mass fitted into the aged, historic brick walls.

She proposes they start figuring out his secret identity. Lenny tells that she's thought of some, but gives him the courtesy to try first. But she's is very specific, and in the God's opinion, _picky_.

"Ok then. Um. What about Yeomra? I can have a last name of something like that?"

She wrinkles her nose, disproving.

"Ok. Uh...Supay?"

"Hmm, no."

"Last name Birdu?"

"What the fuck?"

He frowns. " _Nergal_?"

"Sounds like Nigel. Or _nerd_. Either are old ass choices. Next. Remember, stay with the century."

He rolls his eyes. "U-uh...Orcus, then?"

"You're not a whale." These names are beginning to sound familiar.

"Osiris then? Osiris sounds dignified, and—"

"You're White."

"What? What do you—what does that have to do with anything?"

She chuckles ; it's dry and sardonic. " _Everything_. Next idea?" And he nods, acknowledgingly. She raises her straw to her lips, her finger twirling in a circular motion. For him to hurry up. For them to move on.

"Mantus."

" _No_."

"Yama? Mott? Yama Mott?"

" _No_. And Death Death as your name? Really? You're _great_ at this."

"Dis Pater?"

She raises her drink, takes a sip. " _Dis_ is not working..."

"Aita...then?"

Her cup slams to the tabletop. "Will you stop picking from your past identities!"

The other gives a small jump at the slam, but quickly recovers to holding his own hostility. "And why _not_?"

"Do you _want_ your stay to last longer? Because it will when you'll be locked up and you _won't_ be able to leave. Talking like that will make people think you're crazy. You know how relentless humans can be."

"And yet they go and destroy themselves everyday. They kill the innocent, constantly live in fear."

"Don't think of yourself so highly," she huffs. "Here, to _survive_ , you're going to have to play by the rules. _Their_ rules. Her Majesty can't help you. And here, there are very few of them—rules—and _most_ won't catch on when you pick a name to blend in."

His brows loosen but are still furrowed. "And what happens if they do?"

Lenny opens her mouth, pauses, no sound comes out, closes it. His looks changes to superiority. "That's...only happened two times in my experience," she admits. "If it happens, then you have to call in the calvary."

"Which is..."

"The memory experts."

He makes a silent "ohh."

"Which causes its own set of problems." She pulls out the orange pill prescription bottle acquired earlier, unscrews the white top. He questions her silently. "He's like you," she speaks about her dealer. "A workaholic. Wound tight. And doesn't like to be bothered. He's not as emo, though."

He asks if she's ever going to leave that nickname behind. Lenny responds with a very chipper, " _nope_!" He then asks if she should be taking medication, begins questioning her wellbeing and health. He knows that some humans medicate for health reasons, because of addictions, for no reason at all.

The bottle reads an antipsychotic. " _We're_ affected in different ways, your emo-ness." And then Lenny washes two circular pills down with her iced coffee. She ignores the other's look of skepticism. Because in actuality, she's taken heed to Alaleem Kutbay's warning. The pills she managed to find on her dealer react to give her a sort of Sight on her own, though not as exact and detailed as Alaleem's. For immortals, antipsychotics allows those who cannot already, to see other essences, to see auras. Sometimes the past and future. Sometimes their true intentions. This can be seen right as a small, mostly transparent cloud above their heads, when looking just above their bodies, never directly at. It's like looking at the sun—never straight at, always off to the side. But there is another catch.

Lenny slides her sunglasses back on in time that a barista steps outside. He goes around to each empty grey metal table wiping it down with a damp towel. He asks customers the rehashed question, " _do you need anything?"_ and, _"can I get you_ _anything?"_ Yet, when he arrives to the Gods' table, he falters, hesitates before he reiterating the question. He speaks between gritted teeth and tight lips, mistaking Lenny's shielded eyes during an overcast as yet another person who is using caffeine to medicate a hangover. The dark God looks from Lenny to the young barista, and back again. He doesn't respond. He gives an appointed glare.

However, she does speak. "No. We're all good over here, son." And gives a dismissive point with her chin.

When the barista finally leaves, the God voices his confusion to which the other simply, silently slides her sunglasses down the bridge of her nose. Her irises are missing. Or, more accurately, they've whitened and glazed over. His brows arch. To an unsuspecting eye, she could be mistaken as being blind.

"Like I said: it affects us differently."

"Why," he asks. "What do you need it for?"

"Business," she lies. "You know, to predict lucky stuff that needs to happen at all hours. Every day. Night to morning." Above his head, she sees his existence speeding like a tape on fast forward; she watches his life pass by a century per second. She's looking for any sort of clue, any sort of person who may have their influence planted, or any possible candidates who could pose as a threat for the future.

He asks what she sees.

Her response is a smart-ass comment. " _Now_ you're talkative and wanna be social?"

"Well since I'm down here for seemingly an _eternity_..."

The visions begin to fade, fizzle, fizzle, like an electric spark dying out. A blip, a sizzle, _pop_ , and then it's gone. The air around him comes back into focus and so does he. The God is staring her in the eyes.

"Actually, I didn't see anything." The deity leans back in her chair, a defeated upturn to her lips.

"Seriously? Nothing?"

"Yes, nothing. Like your attempt to contribute to a clever decision. Osiris. Yama Mott." She scoffs at the names.

He challenges, "do you have something better?"

And her expression tightens, widens. "Actually, _yes_ , I do!" She rummages in her purse before pulling out now-crumpled, folded sheet of torn notebook paper.

"Alex?" Is the first name on the list she reads aloud.

He folds his arms, glances to the side. "Alex what?"

She shrugs. "I dunno. Thought to think of a last name afterwards."

He shrugs and shakes his head. "I don't really like it."

The look she passes is a lot like a glare. "Ok, what about Barry?"

"Hm, nah."

Now she's glaring. "I swear if you're being difficult on purpose..." A pen is dished from inside her purse and three lines are crossed out. "Logan? I think it's nice."

"No." He's obviously holding in a smirk now.

"Well. Dimitri?"

"Hmm...nuh uh. Like you said: that sounds _weird_."

She rolls her eyes. "Alright perfectionist, we can't all have perfect alter egos. What about Seth? Or Matthew? I knew a Seth, once."

Amist the foot traffic, a man in a McDonald's uniform hurries through a crosswalk on his way to work. A woman in a business suit sets up a meeting through a phone call. Students, tourists, and one Cookie Monster costume.

"What about David?" The God reads the man's name tag aloud, the one in the Mcdonald's uniform who crosses the intersection.

Lenny thinks, considers it. "Ok. David. We can go with David. I'll write it down as an option."

"No." The sureness in his voice stops her pen. He's trained on the man hurrying around a troupe of school children. "I want that one."

Lenny watches him from across the small metal table. His finger taps the tabletop in time to the countdown on the crosswalk. She repeats the name silently, watching the God before her timing the McDonald's worker as he runs, the vehicles barely stopping in time at the traffic light, and he runs under a billboard before disappearing in the crowd. Only then does the Underworld God—"David. Call me David"—turns his attention back forward.

And for once, Lenny goes silent.

The amusement in David's eyes dim and flicker and die. "What?" he asks.

Lenny shakes her head. She speaks, "nothing." But then, "I think...I kinda like the name. That's all. It kinda fits."

He nods. "Good." He then squints, looking at a point over her head. "Uhh, hey Lucky? I think—do you know that human?" He slips up, calling her her immortal nickname. Before she could scold him, remind him how _important_ it is to continue their cover, he shyly points a finger behind her. " _That_ mortal has been staring for the past minute, almost."

She curses, doesn't turn around. "What does he look like? And keep your voice low."

"I don't know. Maybe—"

" _Don't make it obvious_!"

He freezes, azure eyes widening in alarm and confusion, his neck reeling back. "Ok...! He's, um, tall... Dark hair, cut short. He's dressed...nice—nicely, I _suppose_. Though it's pretty shabby in my opini—"

" _David_ ," Lenny hisses.

"Long face. Prominent jawline. Slight facial hair." One of his hands drift to his own face. "Square nose. Empty eyes. I don't—maybe _brown_?"

"Does he look like an aged Paul Walker?"

"I'm not certain who Paul Walker is, but _sure_." He lowers his chin as the man begins to circle around the cafe, nearing closer, closer. "What's your name again?"

" _Don't stare_! Jesus Christ, it's like you've never spied—"

"Patricia? Patricia is that you?" The man has approached.

And she remembers him—Jonathan, from the hotel—and her veins ice over and she freezes and she panics. Because this isn't supposed to happen. Like any of those she's conjugated with, she isn't suppose to run into him again in this _big city_ where her _luck_ is supposed to prevail. And she begins to worry if it's slipping, weakening.

Jonathan holds a large, hot expresso in one hand. He's neatly, freshly shaved, groomed, unlike when they first met, and he's dressed in a pressed button-down shirt and creased slacks. The scent of his cologne intoxicates their air; David covers his airways. Jonathan is clearly delighted. Upon noticing David, he wavers; his grin turns stale and strained.

David looks from Lenny, who's suddenly grown alarmingly _quiet_ , to the man standing above them, and back again.

In answer, she wears a look of confusion. "Sorry, can we help you?"

One of David's brows shoot as high as the sky. She is still wearing her sunglasses; looks ahead instead of at the man beside her doesn't exist.

"Patricia, it's me," he gestures awkwardly.

Lenny waves a hand in front of her face. And then David understands that she's feigning blindness. He's a bit impressed.

"Sorry, I don't know a Patricia. Do you?" she asks the deity across from her, never actually meeting his gaze.

Jonathan's head turns to the other, his jaw tightening.

David begins to fidget with the sleeves of his jacket. "Uh no—nope. Sorry."

And it's obvious that Jonathan is not only suspicious, but grows uncomfortable. To Lenny's relief, he's _confused_ , so she takes advantage of that by reaching for her purse.

"Honey? Do you mind helping me up? I'm ready to leave now."

Jonathan steps back to watch David scramble up to help her up by her outstretched hand. She makes a show out of grabbing David's arm, feeling his bicep, chest, hand, face to make sure it's him. "It's me. It's me!" he tells around her fingers pressed to his mouth.

She hooks an arm around the other immortal's. They turn for the door. "I'm sure you're a nice man. Hope you find your Patricia." Lenny gives Jonathan's shoulders two parting pats. She hisses into David's ear to not look back.

They manage to slick out the shop without gaining any suspicious looks or questions. When out of eye range, their speed quickens. As soon as they pass the fourth neighboring store, they take off at a fast walk. Lenny is panicking. David is thoroughly confused.

"Who was that man?"

"Don't worry about it." She stuffs her hands in her pockets. A chilling wind blows, making her shiver.

"It obviously _wasn't_ fine determining how _frantic_ you became back there. Who is that human? Is he important? Should I be cautious?"

"To answer in order: no one, he isn't important, and no, you shouldn't be concerned. Unless you're me." He presses further, so to the rolling of her eyes and an annoyed exhale, she admits, "let's just say that that is one of the little mistakes you could run into on Earth that can threaten your exposure."

He visibly pouts, asks "how?"

She shushes him instead. And then, "I promise. I promise I'll explain everything when we get back to my apartment—" She's cut off a second time by someone calling her. This time it's a woman in a lime green top waving an arm from down the sidewalk. This time, Lenny's name is actually Lenny.

The woman—who Lenny gives a small returning greeting that is display—is chipper and all gingerbread and doleful housewife. She envelopes the Goddess in a large hug as David watches, awkwardly, from the side. Apparently, this human's name is Amy.

David observes Amy tighten her hug. And the woman's height is tall, reducing Lenny's, and then she pats the immortal's head and coos about Lenny's stature. "You haven't changed a bit. ...Much," she corrects herself. David couldn't help but to snicker. "How long has it been? Two, three years since you said you'll call?"

Lenny grumbles.

"I'll give you a pass." Then she turns to David. "And who is this _tall glass of milk_?" She sticks out a hand in greeting, introduces herself directly. "Sorry. I'm Amy."

Taking a cautionary glance, he catches Lenny widening her eyes, nodding to Amy's outstretched arm, signaling to shake hands. Remembering the dog from under the overpass that belonged to Lenny's dealer, he unintentionally hesitates. It had been two feet away when the hound appeared to age rapidly, and this woman is in even _closer_ proximity. What if the same happens to her? What if she pulls away her hand and it's wrinkled? What if he kills her?

David wipes his hands on his jacket. "Um..."

"Oh. Sorry...so sorry. I guess, um." Her smile diminishes, fingers retracting. Her gaze flickering to his hands burrowing in to this jacket pockets, the sweep of his dark bangs. "Don't like to be touched?"

David wears a false display of uncertainty. He shakes his head, a subtle, passive grin.

Lenny interrupts. "Nah. He really doesn't. He's very _touchy_." Places a hand on Amy's shoulder, diverting the mortal's attention before she asks questions. Amy sometimes asks too many questions. "Anyways. Girly. Amy. Why don't we—don't we walk? We were just on our way down...this way. There were some _crazies_ at that Starbucks. You want to keep walking, yeah?"

Amy waves. "Oh those crazy girls and their Starbucks. I know." In her hand is a quarter full transparent cup of orange tea, the green logo unmissable.

Lenny corrects that it hadn't been a guy instead; she makes an appointed stare to Amy's cup.

"Caterer," she explains.

"Uh huh..." Lenny's brows rise. She nods.

Two blocks away, they come to a small bookstore. The latest bestsellers are propped on display in the wide window, appropriate props dispersed around them. Bouquets of _Peruvian lilies_ hang near the door. A cafe is inside, to the right and in the front of the store. Amy tells that she remembers when this used to be a clothes department store—which explains the very wide window.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **I was unsure how to end this, so please forgive me for the abrupt ending. This chapter had been set up to be longer, but the word count thought otherwise.**


	5. Chapter 5

 

**/**

 

Inside myths of humans copulating with immortals or demigods, is it a form of self-insert fantasy of mortals? Or could there really be something attracting about the mortals to the acclaimed sublime divinities?

 

**/ /**

 

 

"The gods favour the bold."

**—** **" _Audentes deus ipse iuvat."  
_** **Ovid, Metamorphoses X.586**

 

* * *

 

Greenwood Bookstore is not as old as the non-corporate owned boutiques on its right and the hardware store on its left; there's a Goodwill not too far down the road; Greenwood is a couple blocks from the Starbucks.

The first day David entered the small store, he had been accompanying Lenny and a mortal named Amy. Entering, a noisy blender and the smells from the cafe shop is the first thing that greets them. Amy continues on, strolling into the bookshelves; the unmistakable new-book aroma grow stronger the further they journeyed in-between the aisles. David trails after them as they talk, as they catch up—Lenny chastised for not communicating in four months; David chuckling. Amy comes to a gradual halt inside the couple and marriage section. Se talks about a man she's been with, coincidently meeting after befriending the Goddess. The woman talks about his looks, his chivalry, their luck with careers—flowers, a new house, a cat and a garden and an eaten lizard. And then she mentions a wedding. Soon to be Mrs. Amy Hamilton, she cordially invites her long-time friend, Lenny, to her upcoming wedding as one of her bridesmaids.

Lenny's hands fly up, waving the offer off in good manner. "Oh, you don't have to, Aims. It's—"

"But you _have to_! We've known each other for—how many years now? So long. I can only have the _best_ and most closest up there with me," she butters up. "Besides...I need an even number..." She tells that it is a plus-one event, that Lenny's supposed cousin, David, could attend as well, being a plus as the more the merrier.

By then, David has wondered to the poetry and ancient literature section. The majority of the books here are on Greek mythology. He sneers; finds a few on the Roman myths, approximately five on Norse (two the same copy), and two encyclopedias on African myths and legends. Flipping through one of the Greek myth collections, he finds that it's not to his liking and filled with mostly ink-drawn pictures. He slaps the book closed and tosses it back on the shelf.

The two women continue talking. Lenny isn't able to wiggle out of this bind.

David wonders idly to the cafe at the front of the store. Large blueberry muffins sit behind glass and affordably reasonable espressos written on the chalkboard behind the counter and leaf-shaped green tea mints packed inside little tin canisters sit beside the cash register. He meets the barista, a lady named Ruby—more accurately, the barista, a lady whose name tag reads _Ruby_ , persuades him to try their new Blueberry Blast, and from there she does most of the talking.

When the women return, David has learned that Ruby has been working here for six years and that Lenny is more than ready to return to her apartment.

Amy smiles. Her hand reaches for David's coat instinctively, stops, pulls back. She smiles and tells that she hopes David will attend the wedding.

The colors are coral and periwinkle and cream white.

David purchases a muffin to eat on the way back. Ruby waves, welcoming him to come again.

Lenny grumbles underneath her breath. The lavender scented invitation is folded, forced into her bra to save.

When they return to the apartment building, a man is chain-smoking on a beaten couch left on the sidewalk. The glass entry doors have been propped open, either by that man or a forgetful attendant.

Lenny passes the elevator, and bounces on her calves muscles, waiting for to lower.

A butterfly sits atop a heavily graffitied abandoned wooden table. The insect doesn't move, its wings outstretched and unbalanced, teetering to its left. The insect isn't moving and David realizes its dead.

He glances to Lenny, she shuffling impatiently. The elevator hesitates, taking longer for tenants on the fifth floor get off on the third floor.

David looks back to the butterfly and he remembers the greying muzzle of the mutt under the overpass and he remembers Amy's outstretched, welcoming hand, and he remembers the little boy lost in the rain outside the window.

Lenny's attention is solely directed on watching the elevator's down arrow blink. So, secretly, David prods the butterfly with a finger. It moves like a paper figure. Glancing at the other deity once more, he cups a hand over the insect and inhales trough his nose, his chest expanding, eyes fluttering. It takes three seconds; when he removes his hand, the insects shaking itself off and giving its wings testing flaps, the elevator dings as it opens. Lenny doesn't notice. Before the doors close with them inside, the butterfly takes off for the opened glass doors. It lands on a tree trunk and it's snatched by a lizard.

* * *

 

There's a hole-in-the-wall bookstore along 34th. It's recognized for it's wide windows filled bestsellers and potted flowers year round, and an entry door that requires a sharp eye to find when it's not propped open. It's a cute little place, really. There's a kids section complete with a star chart rug and a locomotive train-bookshelf that kids can sit inside and read. There's a cafe in the from top the store. Potted Peruvian lilies and lavender hang from the ceiling. Oriental lilies sit in pots behind the checkout counters.

Greenwood's Bookstore is a relatively new store within the quaint avenue of other self-owned, mom-and-pop shops. It has a unique benign atmosphere.

It's a day later that David locates the store again. Lenny had gone out again, mentioning something about a lottery ticket. Her advise had been to not leave the premises until she returns—but she was out of coffee and milk for cereal, and he had grown curious about modern literature, and she had also managed to parental block the news and weather tv channels.

So.

He hadn't really had a _choice_ , really.

He slowly strides through the glass doors and past the award-winning autobiographies on display. There are vinyl records on sale. A collection of superhero plushies are sold as keychains near the check-out lines. The floors are carpet-less until reaching the kids section, where a rug had been places. Singular sofa chairs are setup between the adult fiction and cookbooks, graphic novels, and children section. A squadron of keychain-sized rubber ducks are stationed near an enormously tacky decorated Mason jar labeled for tips atop the cafe counter.

David meets Ruby at the front of the bookstore and is told that her favorite drink is something with cinnamon and creamer.

Only coming for breakfast, he grows to learn that Ruby is a talker—

She's talkative, she explains, and that she used to have a spatter of dust brown freckles across her nose, and wore obscene eccentric earrings.

Ruby's preferred drink is cocoa. She's been working at Greenwood's Bookstore for six years now. She's going to university school for a Master's degree. Her favorite color is orange; she prefers the combination orange and black. She likes bright colors. She has a friend who likes similar things, particularly flowers.

By now, he's spaced off. Her words continue spilling like a forgotten faucet.

Sometimes, she will take the empty chair across from him until a customer approaches, and she will talk, talk, talk—about a patron's unsolicited catcalls, or an old roommate, or a confusing school lesson, or a—

She talks while making his orders of a frappe and a cinnamon scone. She offers him to sample experimental concoctions. If the cafe is empty, she would talk to him from across the counter. Or, tell about the birds nest she found outside her home. Or, how she can recite half of Star Trek's original first season word for word. Or, the story about buying the last Harry Potter limited edition books amiss a public fight. Or, about her _worst birthday ever_ when she was eleven and an uncle brought a live rat in revenge of damaging his brand new Lincoln.

Everyday for a week David comes to waste away his time.

Ruby is named after her birthstone. Ruby used to have a pet who eventually had to "go live in a peaceful farm for older dogs." She lived with her mother far longer than she'd like. Her favorite sport is baseball, but she can't play it. Her favorite types of books are all but history.

But also, Ruby likes mythology, and _that_ is when David begins taking an interest. She talks about what she had been introduced to, of the wrong, and the true she had learned on her own—about the Egyptian Nile, Ragnarok, and Jesus Christ; about the tales of Hercules, Ulysses, and the Trojan War—and the absurdity of the condom brand trademarking its name. When she gets to the Greek and Roman myths, David literally leans in closer, head tilted, ears tuned, and blue eyes locked in focus. He listens about the allegories spun about the Greek and Roman versions, simultaneously entertained and simultaneously attentive about the stories passed down the centuries. He listens to the stories about fallen heroes, the cursed, and demigods; about the Gods' battles and betrayals. She tells that the mythologies—his nose wrinkles at the word—are the most known in the country. She grins, tells that she has a favorite tale out of them all, though it's another tragedy.

So many of the stories involve a tragedy, she speaks.

David doesn't speak.

Ruby's hair has highlights; she tucks fallen locks behind her ear. There's powder sugar dusted on her knuckles. She's about to say which tale is her favorite when a loud vibration starts in David's front pats pocket. His cell phone plays a default ringtone that is several volumes too loud.

An unknown number is the caller ID.

Answering it, a very peeved off Lenny is on the other end, demanding his location, reminding him that he was to alert her first, that shouldn't be out, that he shouldn't interact unsupervised, that he shouldn't speak, that he shouldn't, he shouldn't, he shouldn't, he shouldn't—

He hangs up. Ruby smiles politely, overhearing bits and pieces.

Lenny tracks him down an hour later. She had installed a permanent app in his cell phone that shows her his current location. _He_ can't uninstall it.

* * *

 

David makes it a habit to come to the bookstore, and becomes a very regular customer. He comes and hears about the weather, local news, and media gossip. He gets book recommendations and a cup of coffee. The conversations gradually transition from news to human behavior to philosophy to science.

Ruby comments that when he talks it's like a really old—"century old"—professor.

"You ever thought about writing a book? Because I've never met anyone who is so _smart_. And that's not because overtime you talk, you make words sound good," she jokes. "You should have you're own TedTalk, or something."

His smile is quick and miniature and doesn't reach his eyes.

David makes it a daily task to go to the bookstore.

Sometimes, she will take the empty chair across from him until a customer approaches, managing the one-sided conversations. Sometimes she works the cafe, sometimes she's behind the store checkout counter with a lanyard around her neck, the ring full of keys.

On the contrary, David begins liking Ruby's company.

* * *

 

Which is a real shame, actually.

The number one rule for his kind is that immortals are prohibited from having any relations with mortals.

* * *

 

(In a way this is an overestimated, autocratic regulation.)

* * *

 

After the bookstore is discovered the second week of David's' stay in the mortal realm, the day after meeting with Lenny's dealer and spending the remaining several hours of that day high on her living room floor. His reason for remaining at the store being she couldn't watch him constantly and he'll need something to do, lest his mortal body decay die before his stay is over from staying cooped inside the small apartment.

Lenny wants to huff. She wants to object and _command_.

She neither agrees nor denounces his statement.

In fact, she doesn't speak it at all.

* * *

 

By the end of the fifth day, David is able to locate the store on his own.

At first, it's a good idea—he surrounds himself with books as a distraction until hunger hits, or the drowsiness he's still growing accustomed to. He's out of Lenny's hair while she goes and does _God knows what_. And one day when deciding to utilize the coffee shop when not being able to put down an engrossing biography, he discovers what caffeine is and that he ultimately does _not_ favor coffee.

But the store is a convenience. He spends hours, days, from sunup to sundown ordering cups of hot chocolate at a time.

He's recognized as a regular. The employees have silently begun concerning about his health on the number cups of decaf frappucinos and muffins he downs. But they ultimately rub it off because some are university students and they are grateful for generous tips, even from reclusive men in leather jackets. The man with dark hair and popped collar provides surprisingly good conversation when the hours are slow and the checkout lines nonexistent. As his most frequent company, Ruby's conversations gradually begin flowing two-ways.

The topic about ancient Gods is brought up again, and Ruby is fascinated about his knowledge, asking frequent questions and retelling. She mentions that she has a friend who too knows a lot about myths. David once wonders aloud that maybe he and this friend of hers could have a friendly debate one day.

"If luck has it, maybe," Ruby responds.

Ruby's position rotates. David is disappointed when her shifts as a barista ends so she can operate the cash register—because the next barista never makes his order the way he likes. But Ruby is still eager to talk, he discovers, during breaks she slides into the seat across from him at the cafe table and jolting the cup in his hand, almost spilling it on his book and his plain t-shirt, and he chokes. She's finally told his name, the mortal one chosen. When she asks, he tells that he's from California. That his occupation is business anthropologist. That he drives a Chevrolet Malibu. That his favorite color is fern green.

She's told a series of spontaneous lies.

He lies off his ass.

She laughs anyway, oblivious of it.

Still, David finds her slightly annoying.

One truth is that he watches the news every night, he tells in impromptu. He doesn't like it, though. Secretly, he watches both the local and world news to have a guesstimate on the number of souls likely entering the afterlife. It's under two hundred so far since the start of his mandatory _vacation_ , which puts his mind at rest a little. Slightly. Not really.

He lies to himself. He lies to those around him.

He's told Lenny that he would take a hit from her vapor drug, she offered once. In his defense, she ad been intoxicated again, so he doubted she would even remember the lie.

Once, he's asked about the local library to an employee in Greenwood. Since he likes books so much, "why not check them out there," suggests a young man who wears brown khakis and a snobby attitude. It turns out that the nearest library is on the other side of town. Plus, a God who doesn't have a birth certificate couldn't _exactly_ obtain a library card.

Though, instead, David had scorned the foolish boy. The next day, the boy awaking with gain green and his fish floating in its aquarium.

* * *

 

Twice, Ruby doesn't come to work, and David's routine is thrown slightly askew. The barista behind the counter accidentally gives his order to another, and then makes his second caffeinated instead of decaf. That day, David leaves early to meet Lenny for an emergency. They end up pet-sitting a friend's tabby cat. Like the dog before, it doesn't take a liking to the death deity, and its fur— _its fur_ begins to age.

Four days later, the cat is returned with a terrible cold. In those four days, David remains in the apartment. When he leaves for the Wendy's three blocks away, Band-Aids patch his fingers, forearms, and biceps.

The night before, the news covered a story about a recent college graduate that committed suicide. So when the death deity catches sight of a depressed woman on his walk back to Greenwood Bookstore moving through the crowd, he follows her. She gives off a odorless miasma that coaxes him trail a distance after her until she comes to a bridge overlooking the northern end of the park's wide-reaching pond. She stands normally, as if she's another admiring the scenery. She waits until a teenage couple finish Snapping duck-face selfies, comes to the bridge's edge, leans on her hands, and lifts a foot to the ledge.

She had come to the bridge to commit suicide, but for why, David doesn't know.

He squints. As the God over death and the past souls, he once requested Alaleem to give him also the gift of foresight. Though he was denied, he is able to tell when someone's death is near. And as he watches this random mortal woman brace herself to lift her other foot to stand on the stone ledge, to _jump_ , fall into the freezing, rushing water, he squints, jerks his chin upwards. She pauses, eyes trained, before finally stepping down. As the God of death, he's been able to deter others from death, however it is very rarely done, given it disrupts one's fate which results in consequence.

As soon as he alters the woman's decision, his stomach sinks and his pulse speeds up. Changing one's fate is like breaking an important law that could demote a God of heir status and position.

It could get Her Majesty angry. And when Her Majesty is angered...

The mortal woman adjusts her leather jacket and walks across the bridge with steadfast feet. David quickly retreats. Once more indistinguishable within the crowd, he silently hopes that the Queen of The Gods wouldn't find out.

He feels like his aspirations are fruitless.

On the third day of Ruby's absence, David notices another person has taken her schedule. Well, he doesn't notice it right away, doesn't even _realize_ it, actually.

It happens after the incident at the bridge, when he's on his way back and is debating to skip his visit to the small bookstore today. Approaching the wide window, he's raising a Twizzler to his mouth, weighing his options, determining his possible decisions to burn time for the day, and gazing in the store's front display window. Behind displays of bestselling mystery and young adult fiction, and the bright arrays of flowers, there's movement. He watches, and he thinks he sees someone familiar, and he's of course confused, when he suddenly stops. He completely _freezes_ , hand raised, in mid-chew, and outside front of the main store window. He stops and he doesn't blink, doesn't move, doesn't breathe because he _can't_. He's stunned. Startled. Petrified.

In the window, coincidentally obscured by large Peruvian lilies, is the most dazzling, most entrancing, most _exquisite_ woman—she's young, smiling as she rings child books for an elderly woman; a woman of breathtaking beauty that David's world seems to have become strangely airless. She's wearing a lime green dress, which she had accessorized with a large sunflower hair clasp. And once the brightness of it all is gotten over, the general effect is quite pleasant. Because she has long blonde hair falling over a shoulder, and she seems to emanate a subtle warm glow.

She's probably a new employee.

He blinks. He _stares_ ; watches her makes conversation with a customer, sliding the spine of a book with a handheld barcode scanner. David blinks, and he _stares_. And he's able to place a finger on where he's seen her before.

And he's hypnotized.

And he's entranced.

And he's _enamored_.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Because this is the last chapter that had been written ahead of time and it's been sitting in my drafts, I'm deciding to post. I don't know when this fic will be updated—which is determined by when I will have the time to write more chapters. Life happens and it's getting complicated on my end. But as of now, this fic is not abandoned. It's just on hold until I get more chapters written.**
> 
> **Also since Sydney has finally came in (the blonde), if there's any further thoughts, expectations, or hc, you can feel free to send me an ask aqhrodites on tumblr**


	6. Chapter 6

I'm sure that you've herd about the net neutrality debate that's gained attention. A lot of people are upset, unnerved, and even devastated about it. Today is the day that the vote about it will be happening. I'm not wishing for this at all and I'm very worried. And after a lot of thinking, I've decided to take down this fic series, along with one other I've written and posted on here in the bad case (God forbid). 

I might upload them again when I return to writing these series. Or i might just do google docs in the event of the worst. I haven't decided that much about sharing though, but I do think it's more damage to keep them up, especially with this mess going on.

Also from encouragement from Jenny and El, I think I will take up El's recommendation to make this a solo story, no longer a fanfic.

This fic will be deleted or not, depending on the outcome after today.

**Author's Note:**

> **If this fic is liked enough, I'll likely continue it.**
> 
> **Kudos don't tell much so _please_ let me know your thoughts! Was it bad and crappy? Was it too long and obnoxious? Was it just ok? Don't hold back your words, please! _Don't_ forget to comment. _Or_ , shoot me a complain and/or critic [_here_](http://aqhrodites.tumblr.com/ask). You can also go there to complain to me if it's just God awful, or even not, or just for any worries. Any words, good or bad, are greatly appreciated.**


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